


Since When Do Angels Fake Their Own Deaths?

by cumberbabeswillrise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:58:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbabeswillrise/pseuds/cumberbabeswillrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>P.O.V. of John and Sherlock after the fall. Sorry for the format. I cannot for the life of me get AO3 to publish my story the way I have written it on open office. Sorry dears</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Goodbye, John.”  
I see it all in slow motion. His body falling, the faint cracking of his neck and a few other bones as he hits the ground. I try to run to him, but it feels like I'm suspended in jello. I make my way toward him.  
I hit the ground, my body sliding on the hard cobblestone. I hardly feel it, the only thing I feel is my heart smashing upon the ground with blinding force. Slowly, I pull myself up and run to him, pushing through the crowd of doctors and nurses.  
“Let me through. Let me through, he's my friend.” I try to pull out of their grasps. It feels like Death himself is attempting to claw me away from him. I feel myself begin to break as I see his blue-green eyes staring up at the sky. He continues to look up, like he can't see me. I keep praying he'll blink, anything to show me he's alive. I stare at his chest. Please breathe. Just move up and down, for me.  
I can't feel anything in his wrist. Nothing. Not a damn thing. His eyes are glazed over, like he's in a trance, but I know he's not in a trance. I know he's not going to wake up. My heart is now dust, non existent, for he took it with him when he jumped. They rip him away from me and lift his lifeless body onto a gurney. A nurse asks me if I'm all right, then follows the gurney into the hospital.  
The crowd quickly disperses, leaving me standing over a pool of blood. I feel like I've been there for hours, I probably have, just staring at his blood. It's quickly browning, no longer a deep red. I feel a sob about to rack my body, I almost let it. Then, I see him shaking his head at me, and I stop. I turn on my heel, still covered in his blood, and make my way back to Baker Street on autopilot. I let my feet guide me, since my brain has quit working. I can't even think, I don't want to breathe. It hasn't hit me yet, I'm in shock. I walk past Mrs. Hudson, who gives a yell of surprise at the state of my clothing, and up to the flat. Mycroft is waiting for me.  
“I need to speak with you,” he is sitting in Sherlock's chair, lounging as though everything is peachy keen. Anger courses through me.  
“Speak with me? Why don't you go talk to Jim, tell him of Sherlock's state, how's he's feeling,” my lip quavers. “Except he isn't feeling anymore. He won't feel ever again,” Oh God. I can't stand any longer. I grab the back of a chair and sink to my knees.  
“I know.” Mycroft's voice shakes a little, “I got the call about twenty minutes ago.”  
“And let me guess,” I whisper. “you feel nothing. No remorse, no sadness. You feel nothing but a little displeasure. There's no genius around here anymore for you to spy on. There's no black-clad curly haired man strutting around for you to fight with. It's a minor set back to you, nothing more.” I spit the last sentence at him, and to my surprise, he flinches.  
“I cared for my brother. I didn't get along with him, but I loved him. I know he'd scoff at me for using such a word, but it's true. I practically raised him, like he was my own.” He stood to leave, his hands shakily fumbling with his umbrella. “Moriarty's dead. He shot himself just before Sherlock jumped. He shouldn't bother you anymore.”  
“Then why... why jump?” I look up at Mycroft like a helpless child, not understanding this new concept.  
“I guess we'll never know. Sherlock certainly had his own way of doing things.” Mycroft taps his umbrella twice on the floor, then strides out of the flat.  
He left me there, shaking on the floor. Sherlock left me, left me in this cruel world all alone. The bastard abandoned me, just like everyone else had. I knew he had no care for sentiment, but I didn't expect him to leave me, too. I hear Mrs. Hudson begin to cry downstairs, and knew that Mycroft had told her. I should go down, help her. But who was going to help me? Sherlock was no longer there... to save me. I was all on my own. I was utterly alone, and loneliness felt dark and heavy. It clung to my shoulders and made it an effort just to stand up. My chest felt hollow, like it would soon cave in on itself. I could feel the silence in the air like it was calling my name. I wanted to speak, anything to break the agonizingly thick air, but I was afraid: afraid that my voice would shake and I would begin to scream and cry and I would not be able to stop.  
So I did not say anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

 I knew John was going to have a hard time. I could see it, hear it in his voice while on the roof, and while I was up there, I knew I was going to have a hard time too. Now, as I watched him attend my funeral, I could not help but feel guilty. I _hated_ feeling guilty. I only _felt_ when John was involved. I couldn't understand how one man could change another so quickly. We had lived together for eighteen months and he had already changed me.

I had tried very hard to understand Chemistry. I had excelled in it, obviously, with my work I had to know how to use standard sections of it. I had never grasped brain chemistry, though. The things people label as emotions that were in fact just chemical imbalances. The human brain was complex, but not as complex as people like to think. I had always thought myself above normal human impulses and emotions, but when John showed up I realized how wrong I was, and I am still not sure how I feel about it.

At first, I had thought him weak for caring about the victims and forming attachments with the fellow officers. I had thought him stupid for not seeing the most obvious things. Soon, I saw him learning, picking up things that I was doing, so he would become a better detective. John showed significant improvement within the first few weeks. He could distinguish body language and other such things that the other detectives could not even hope to see. I had actually felt... _proud_ of him. I had hardly known what that felt like, considering I had never had anything to be proud of besides my own petty accomplishments. I had thought I was getting sick, when I felt this swelling in my chest. It was odd, because it was not a painful swelling, it felt good, like what people would describe as looking at your child for the first time.

Sometimes I could feel John watching me, not in a predatory way or even in a lover's way, but like he actually cared how I was feeling. He would watch my reactions to little things, like he was trying to see if I was actually human. Reluctantly, I found myself showing signs of emotion. I knew it made John happy to see that I cared, so I gave in a few times. I could never understand why he cared, which frankly pissed me off. Why someone would care about a man like me, when I could not even care for a dog, let alone people. I had asked him on multiple occasions, but it seemed as though he did not want to show too much emotion around me, like I would make fun of him. Sadly, that is exactly what I did.

 _“There are hundreds of people dying in this hospital, doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedsides?”_ he hadn't said anything, just bit his lip and walked away. I knew he did not like saying anything rude to me, for my entire life people had been nothing but rude to me. Granted, I had not been very nice, but John was the first person who genuinely cared, who was not overbearingly protective.

My broken army doctor was finally being fixed. He was almost back to near-perfect, but when I jumped off St. Bartholomew's I threw him off as well. His porcelain heart shattered on the ground and now I am not positive whether or not he will ever be put back together.  


	3. Chapter 3

After a few years, I moved on from Sherlock. My limp came back and I often had nightmares, but I did not cry anymore. I did not get angry for no reason or break things. I was 'coping' as my therapist informed me. She had been delighted when I showed up on her doorstep, covered in rain and tears. Another 200 quid per hour really got her goat.

The therapist convinced me to continue my work with Scotland Yard. I was hesitant to agree, of course. Working around death each and every day would only further remind me of the wonderful man I had lost. Every day that I toured London with Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and Anderson, was nothing but pain. Pain and the memories. We would be driving and I would look out the window, envisioning my black-clad crusader to come racing around the corner, here to save me from my depression. Naturally, I was denied that privilege.

I missed him. Simple as that, I missed him. Oddly enough, I missed hearing the violin yelling through the walls at three in the morning. I missed running around London and risking my life. Running with him was like running in the war. The thrill. The chase. It made the nightmares go away. Sherlock made the nightmares go away.  


	4. Chapter 4

Since my 'death', I had traveled around the world, striving to destroy Moriarty's web. I had finally succeeded. It was time to go home to Mrs. Hudson, my skull, and John. It was time to right the wrongs.

I knew John, and I apologize for using such a simile, like the back of my hand. He was quite possibly my favorite person in the world. I was not going to let Moriarty take him from me.

I watched John, now. I had returned a few months ago. I was positive that Moriarty's web had long since been swept away in the rain. John was limping again, it is more pronounced than when I had first met him. He is suffering, and it is all my fault.

I could see the man's once bright blue eyes were now dull and sad. Though he was smiling and laughing with Lestrade, I cannot see that he is now empty. His eyes are not dull, yet they do not hold the same luster with which he once had.

I watch as John bid Lestrade farewell and begins weaving his way through the streets of London. He seems like he is having a difficult time, accidentally hitting his cane on people's shins, apologizing as he goes. I watch him enter 221B, and decide to make my move. I want to come home.

My hands shake, that is unusual. I am used to complete and utter control, and in truth, it scares me that I am not. It scares me that I am scared. My chest feels hollow and airy, weak and feeble. I slide my key into the lock, smiling with familiarity as it clicks open. Cautiously, I walk up the stairs, allowing the fifth stair to creak loudly. I hear John stop whatever he is doing and keep walking up anyways.

“Mrs. Hudson, is that you?” he calls.

I feel my breath quickening. I reach the top of the stairs. I peer inside at my roommate. He is stooped over the sink, washing dishes. I can see the grey patches in his hair, they are much more distinct up close.

“Mrs. Hudson, I'll get the light downstairs checked out soon.” John said as he turns around. The plate in his hand slips and crashes onto the floor. His eyes widen and I see the tears well up. The cane clatters to the floor and he takes a small step backwards. John gapes, “But... you-”

Stepping closer to him, I utter the words I have been wanting to speak as soon as I jumped, _  
“Hello, John.”_


End file.
